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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Illusion
Citadel
Atheism
Inwards
Almost
Citadels
Literature
Airy
May
Spider
Men
Spin
Like
Spiders
Appears

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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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